The Scent Of Water
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: Deconstructing Charlotte King. Broken babies, Southern wishing bridges, angst and fluff and lots of backstory. CharlotteSam pairing eventually. Vienna Teng lyrics. Reviews appreciated! COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Down where the blue-eyed grasses surround the sparkling creek, there's an old wishing bridge that stretches from one side of the marshy bank to the other. It's not much to look at; it's rickety and splintery with the marks of a thousand fishing hooks. The centre is paved with the thump-thump of children's bare feet; lovers have stood, staring into the water, kissing under a sunset-streaked sky. It's everyone's bridge, but Charlotte has always felt that it belongs only to her.

When the shadows fall; the dangerous clink-clink of ice in a glass gets too close for comfort, Charlotte sneaks down, through the cotton fields, over the pine-chipped path, not caring if her bare feet hurt or if her little legs get scratched from the brambles on that scary forest path, because she might laugh; or she might cry, or she might even try to catch fireflies as they drift down over the bridge railing, falling precariously close to the creek. Mostly, though, she stands and stares at the moon's funny face in the water below and when the asthma threatens to take hold of her little body again, she inhales and exhales, inhales and exhales, the scent of water better than any medicine.

_It's the quiet night that breaks me. _

_I cannot stand the sight of this familiar place. _

_It's the quiet night that breaks me, _

_Like a dozen paper cuts that only I can trace. _

_All my books are lying useless now. _

_All my maps will only show me how to lose my way. _

Slumped over her desk – yes, she sleeps there sometimes. She often will wake up, blinking in confusion, to find her head pillowed on a pile of charts, the pale light from her computer screen hurting her tired eyes. The large window that she never has time to look out of will be streaked with pink, or green, or even gold, depending on the time of the day, and she'll feel foolish. It's why she keeps a spare set of dress clothing in the locker beside her desk. It's why sometimes the hollows under her eyes are more pronounced than ever, but her manner is twice as efficient to make up for being a human being.

It's not as if home is much better. No, it's tastefully decorated; she's got pictures of European cities she's never had time to visit and classical music piled on the shelf beside the stereo. But the bed's too soft and empty; she lies awake at night with the cat's eyes glowing green in the dark and the curtains fluttering at the window, and although she can hear the sea, she can't see it, and sometimes that's the hardest of all.

Charlotte Annalee King is the last of four children; the tiniest and the strongest. Born on a hot August night under the Georgia haloed moon, she was premature and blue at birth. Even though the facilities were far away, she was rushed to Atlanta's premier hospital and placed under twenty-four hour watch. She was not expected to live. Of course, people who know Charlotte King know not to expect anything of her. She beats the odds, every time.

Charlotte survived, with respiratory problems that kept her hooked up to an apnea machine for the first six months of her life. She had a hired nanny that made sure she was fed, dry and comfortable, but her mother couldn't bear to lay eyes on her until she was a thin baby, all eyes, lying in a basket in the corner of the verandah. She listened to gossip and soft Southern accents until she was old enough to walk. She doesn't remember it, but brandy on her soother ensured that she was too fuzzy-minded to cry about anything important. Diaper rashes from lying in wet clothing all day; a growling stomach and the consequent upset; this was Charlotte's babyhood. She got used to discomfort and never expected anything better.

As a child, she snuck around the property, trying to remain invisible. She never attracted her father's rage like her brother, Alexander; she never felt the sting of rejection like Francine, her sister. Instead, she hid under beds and behind potted plants; her blonde hair tucked behind her ears and her blue eyes wide with fear. Only once did she end up feeling the sting of the belt. Her father's eyes, blue like hers, bored into her terrified gaze; her arm bruised where he grabbed her and her bare bottom bled, but no one said a word; no one heard her screams. Her mother poured more gin in the bedroom; her nanny cried around the corner, and her brothers and sister edged away from the house as fast as they could because they knew they'd be next.

_Oh, call my name. _

_You know my name. _

_And in that sound, everything will change. _

_Tell me it won't always be this hard. _

_I am nothing without you, _

_But I don't know who you are. _

Sometimes, it's easy to forget the humid Georgia heat and the velvet Southern skies among the land-starlit city of Los Angeles. After medical school (because she could save others if she couldn't save herself), after she learned to speak with a modulated accent and not the thick Southern twang she had been used to, she'd closed up. Became a shell. The little girl who had been so curious about her world was still curious, but Charlotte vowed not to let anyone else hurt her. She was no longer the little girl who had to hide. Instead, she became the best in her class; the best in her year; the best damn surgeon in her hospital who rose to Chief of Staff at the age of thirty.

What she didn't realize is that becoming the best means that you lack in other areas of your life. At first, she didn't care. What was the point? And then, she met Ben.

Remembering Ben is like remembering something that you're not sure really happened. Ben was a Jewish general surgeon; Ben fell hard for the blonde, blue-eyed beauty with the set face; Ben loved Charlotte but Charlotte didn't know what to do with that love. Wild sex turned into two people lying side by side in the too-soft bed and having absolutely nothing to say.

He fought to break through her shell. She fought to keep him out because her experience with men is that they use your softness against you. She forgot how to be a woman. He finally left, driven out by the sting of her words and the knives of her screams. The little house with the view of the bay was a prison, and Charlotte watched him drive away for the last time with little to no regret.

Little to no regret, that is, until she turned back into the house and realized that she didn't know how to be alone, either.

_It's the crowded room that breaks me _

_Everybody looks so luminous, and strangely young. _

_It's the crowded room that's never heard._

_No one here can say a word of my native tongue. _

_I can't be among them anymore. _

_I fold myself away before it burns me numb. _

Charlotte hates people. Well, that's not really true. Charlotte longs to be like the people she hates. Hiding behind her tough shell, staring out at a world that's too hard to live in, it's easier to be the bitch than to reach out. No man is an island? Charlotte's way out in some rough ocean, trapped against the waves of laughter and happiness and joy.

On the wishing bridge, she could be anyone she wanted to be. Sometimes, she pretended to be a princess, sweeping back her shoulder-length hair, imagining a crown perched on her head. Sometimes, she was some great hero, and everyone admired her. Staring down into the still pool below, she'd sit for hours and sing, or imagine, or compose stories in her head that she never bothered to write down. Some children escaped in books; Charlotte lived every story.

Sitting, swirling a glass of gin and tonic (no ice), she still imagines who she could be and she knows, inside her, there's someone who wants to be loved. Inside, there's that scared little girl who never knew her parents, but still longed to be cuddled. All the science in the world can't change that fact.

Life is so damn lonely, you know? And it's her fault – she knows it. But she doesn't know how. She doesn't know how to distinguish the bad laughter from the inclusive type. And she doesn't really want to, at this point in her life. She's a lost traveler and she's standing in the middle of nowhere screaming, but no one can hear her. And you know what? Eventually, you get tired of screaming to the sky.

_Oh, call my name. _

_You know my name. _

_And in your love, everything will change. _

_Tell me it won't always be this hard. _

_I am nothing without you,_

_But I don't know who you are._

She has a prayer on her lips: she prays it every day. Let her first do good. Let her help and not hurt. Let her get through the day without mishap. Let her make a difference medically in people's lives.

In the middle of the night, when she can't sleep and the cat won't stay, a different prayer gets whispered brokenly in the dark.

Let someone remember she exists. Give her someone to care for.

Let her be loved.

_I am nothing without you,_

_But I don't know who you are._


	2. Chapter 2

Lake Pontchartrain is the biggest lake in Louisiana. It's also the second biggest salt-water lake in the United States. But, that's not the point of recounting this. The point is, Lake Pontchartrain is a sanctuary; an expanse of unbroken sapphire blue with secrets in the deep.

Charlotte King was conceived at Lake Pontchartrain; there in the emerald reeds and dock leaves; there next to the slight brackish scent of gently-lapping water. She sometimes gets a scent of green and mud and blue lake; sometimes, even in the centre of her Santa Monica office, she'll catch the scent of that wide water vista, and it'll make her smile, for no reason at all.

You know how your fondest memory is often something not very big? Charlotte sometimes traces it over in her mind, when she's sitting at home and _Scrubs_ is on and she's laughing sarcastically at the inaccuracies, she'll suddenly remember the silky feeling of wet sand through her hands, or the way her hair flows like a mermaid underwater. Lake Pontchartrain. It's more than a vacation spot; it's like your best memories of every awesome vacation submerged under a calm blanket, safe and cool in the reeds.

_Sunday; dark water draining north, _

_The heat swells and bursts like plague. _

_Sunday; ever-so-faint slow tambourine glides _

_Onward toward the grave. _

When she met him, he was gesticulating wildly at a resident, and she slipped by unnoticed. She learned later that he had been asking for her, and thankfully, she'd smiled at her escape. Charlotte is a tiger; it's true. But she really prefers to avoid confrontation, especially with those she doesn't know.

Sam Bennett; he's so preppy. Shirt's always tucked in. Head and face always carefully shaven. But he's got a closed-over piercing and a scar on his chest, and no one would know unless they traced it with their fingers after a session in his bed in the house by the sea. And she didn't know it until much, much later; that's jumping ahead of the story.

He's got gentle hands. He's got a smooth, deep voice. He's married, and none of it's Charlotte's fault, but it's the way of it. It's always the fucking way of it.

It was one night after Ben; she missed her period and peed on a stick, and realized that a pregnancy was something she hadn't thought to slot into her day calendar. It just was never the right time. She had no husband; she had no permanent place to live. She had money but student loans to pay off after her father refused to help with medical school (read: spent all the college fund money on gin). And it just wasn't going to work. She made the appointment for the clinic the next day.

Plus, some people just shouldn't be mothers. Charlotte hates children. Okay, no, she doesn't. But she does hate the idea of being tied to someone for the rest of your life. Her parents . . . her parents never thought. Never thought that four kids were too much. Never realized that four kids could be a type of hell that you don't realize you're creating for yourself. And she doesn't drink; she doesn't drink. But it's the fact that she'd be alone and no one would get the baby at three AM for her. It's the fact that the child would spend its formative years in the hospital daycare. Hormones notwithstanding, it just doesn't work.

She never gets the chance to contemplate life with a baby (or with an abortion), though, because she has a miscarriage a week later. No, it's nothing big; like a heavier period, really. A relief.

But he catches her crying in the hallway outside the nursery and his eyes are so meltingly brown. "Charlotte King?"

"What do you want?" It's blunter than she normally would be. It's not the way she imagines a first meeting.

"I'm Sam Bennett. And if this is a bad time . . ."

"It's never a bad time." She laughs a little, wipes the tears from her eyes. "Can I meet you in my office in about fifteen minutes?" She reaches into her memory. "The patient with the abdominal pain, right?"

"Yeah." He hands her a handkerchief and she smells spicy cologne as she raises it to her eyes.

He stares, almost unseeingly, into the nursery window. "Someone you lost?"

"In a manner of speaking."

_Who drew the line? _

_Who drew the line between you and me? _

_Who drew the line that everyone sees? _

She's got the numbness on her tongue; that slight nausea she's popped Dramamine to control. The Percocet makes the cramps ebb and she leans back in the comfortable office chair that they special-ordered, feeling the sleepiness overcome her.

It's like feeling the cool water close above her hair. It's that same feeling of release.

_Darling, Lake Pontchartrain is haunted: _

_Bones without names, photographs framed in reeds. _

_Darling, what blood our veins are holding. _

She meets Naomi Bennett later on; she watches her argue with a petite version of herself outside the hospital as they wait for Sam to finish with a patient, and Charlotte's jealous, she's hot and harsh like a glass of fire. And it just doesn't seem fair, that every man is either taken or gay, or can't relate (she still sees the sad brown eyes at night; Ben never really leaves). She envies Naomi and wonders why the woman always frowns when she has someone who probably massages her shoulders at night and plays jazz on the terrace stereo under the streaked California sky.

Anyway, it's easier to sink. If you never connect, you never miss out. Right?

The watery world is more beautiful, anyway.

_The overpass frozen, fires ablaze at sea. _

_Who drew the line? Who drew the line _

_That cuts to the skin, buries me in? _

_Tell me who drew the line. _

It takes awhile, but her staff starts to realize. Her voice is slurred in the mornings. Her hands shake until she goes into her office and pops more pills, and she knows that in a different way, she's become who she hates. So it's not the gin; it's the same numbness, and for the first time, she understands the need to break something – the need to make something feel, to hear someone scream. And she hates herself for it.

He comes into her office, eyes blazing, ready to scream about something that's not right administratively, and stops dead when he catches her dry-heaving into a garbage can next to her desk. "Oh, okay . . ."

"Jus' go." Her voice is slurred and her hand grips the edge of the desk too hard, and he realizes suddenly that going would be irresponsible at this point. Detaching her hand is tough; the grooves in her palm are red and painful and her eyes are rimmed with tears, and he can tell by the sluggish beat of her pulse that she's on something. She's lost five or ten pounds since the last time he saw her. All the beautiful designer clothes and crisp white lab coats don't hide the weight loss, or the pale blue veins under her skin.

"What are you doing?"

"Why?"

"Whatever it is, you can't afford this, Charlotte."

"I don't know why you care. You don't even know me."

He sighs and runs a hand over his scalp, eyes never leaving hers. "Destruction? Doesn't need to be on more than speaking terms with me."

She suddenly crumples. "I hate myself. And I hate you. And you know too much."

His hand is warm on her shoulder. "I'm not about to let on that I know."

_Darling, don't close your eyes. _

_(Lie as darkness hardens. _

_Lie of our reunion. _

_Oh, lie if God is sleeping. _

_Oh, I believe you now.) _

It grows from there. It'd be silly to say that Charlotte learned to trust Sam, but she trusted him more than any other man she knew. More than Ben, and she married the guy.

Coming off the Percocet is hard. She refuse rehab and he doesn't push her; they spend hours locked in his office, discussing options. She won't see the shrink. He pleads with her and she turns her face away. He tries to get her to describe the triggers; she tells him to fuck off. It's a slow process. She sees Naomi peering in out of the corner of her eye and agrees to go to AA as his eyes leave hers to meet his wife's. She only says it to get him to look back, and is rewarded when his gaze slides back to hers and she gets a smile, too.

The crisis comes when he finds her on the floor of Oceanside, just after opening, the one day. Dell is crouched over her and Sam pushes him aside to check her pulse and to feel her hands, which are freezing. He quickly realizes she's not eating and forces her to drink a root beer while yelling at her in the closed conference room.

She realizes that keeping his attention is worth the pain, and skips her AA meetings to drive by his house. Sometimes she brings a bottle of Corona; often, she keeps her head low and watches the silhouettes through the window, remembering the life she gave up and the life she wants so badly.

She chews her fingernails at night and stares through the window out at the shimmering water, off in the distance, and thinks about the lake. It's not even so much that it was a spot to get away; it was never away. The yelling and abuse followed her to Louisiana. But it was a different sort of pain; it was the ability to hide in the rushes and watch the boaters on the water; it was the way that the wind whistled lazily through the trees and ruffled her thin blonde hair. It was another place to hide, and Pontchartrain has its share of secrets.

Naomi never found out. When he started to withdraw, Charlotte hid behind the door. But she made sure she always came to the surface; she always stood before him when he turned around. She extended slowly; she reached her hand out and he grabbed it.

_Darling, Lake Pontchartrain will cradle me _

_And all you left behind. _

Funny, that seemed to almost be enough, at the time. She never thought of asking for more.

_Listen: ever-so-faint slow tambourine _

_Is marching back through time._


	3. Chapter 3

Like those ocean-tossed waves, it's easy to relate everything to the sea. It's just easier to throw it all into the depths. That Pacific Ocean, that calm blue sea; and yet, further out it gets rough. It hides broken ships and dead bodies; it's got spread-out pockets of beauty and detritus. And in that way, maybe it's like her mind: it's never been more disorganized. She sits on the dock and trails her feet in the water and watches the bathers walk by; all the beautiful L.A. people and she never does relate.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye. It's not even that she's so different from Naomi. It's not even that she never sleeps and she never blinks and she's like one of those lizards that cling to the side of his house for dear life; no. It's more the way her hair moves like cornsilk in the soft salt-scented winds; she bows her head under the sun and he watches the light trace her profile, and it's more than just beautiful. She's thin and tired, but she's different. And maybe that's all he needs, in a stagnant marriage with a whining teenager and an indifferent wife. What drives people to cheat? It's never just the beauty of her lover.

She hugs her knees and the goosebumps rise on her arms, and her hair falls to hide her face. He draws her close and she sighs. It's a fleeting moment and it's not anything really important, but she's like a snapshot on the light; it's more than just a moment in the wind.

"I don't know what we're doing here."

"I don't know, either."

_"It's so beautiful here," she says,_

_"This moment now and this moment, now."_

_And I never thought I would find her here:_

_Flannel and satin, my four walls transformed._

_But she's looking at me, straight to center,_

_No room at all for any other thought._

They have slow sex at her apartment, but she puts a stop to it because she can't sleep after she orgasms, and then he's stuck watching her pace the apartment like a nervous cat, eyes catching the half-light and reflecting it back. He feels nervous just watching her, and he's normally so calm. He's not used to a woman who won't sleep. Her hands shake a little; she's not as good of a surgeon since she got off the Percocet. What she doesn't let Sam know is that she still pops one, every so often.

"Come and lie down."

"I'm not sleepy. You know, you should maybe go."

He stretches; a black panther under the covers, his chest muscles rippling above the edge of the white sheet, and catches her arm. She rips it free and stares at him, almost crouching over the end of the bed, until he places his warm hands on her back. "Shh."

Slowly, she creeps back in beside him; she lets him massage the tension from her shoulders and stroke her blonde hair. He kisses her; his lips are so soft against the clench of her jaw, and she lets it go enough to cup his stubbled chin and run her hands over the tensing muscles in his back. When he enters her, she gasps from pain, like a virgin even though she lost it at sixteen.

She doesn't come, but he does, and she takes a certain satisfaction from the fact that gentle sex escalates with passion; it's not hot, but it's enough to make it interesting. Afterwards, she tucks herself into a fetal position and makes no apologies for how fucked-up she is.

He can't really feel the pain, but he cradles her, anyway, even knowing that she won't sleep. She remains awake, a willing prisoner in his clasped arms, and doesn't move in case she wakes him.

After she closes her eyes, he opens his, and wonders what the fuck he's throwing away with Charlotte King.

_And I know I don't want this, oh, I swear I don't want this._

_There's a reason not to want this but I forgot._

At work, she goes about her day and is a little less harsh on the two hundred physicians under her management. She even smiles at a memo on her computer, surprising her on-duty nurse, who peeks around the door in utter surprise.

Sam comes to the hospital on a consult for a patient at Oceanside and brings Naomi with him. She tries not to flirt; tries not to smile even though she's sleeping with him and Naomi has no fucking clue. She can't keep the sparkle out of her eyes, even as her heart tugs a little with guilt at the fact that she can ignore Sam's role as father and husband in bed, but looking at the twin wedding rings gleaming on their left hands drives the point home a little too clearly.

After the consult, he corners her in the hallway and she stares up at him, wondering what it is she did wrong. His chest is heaving a little; his eyes are blazing, and he's only gentle because he knows her history; the bits and pieces she's let slip during those nights of insomnia. "What the hell are you doing?"

Used to her dour expressions and sharp dialogue, Naomi had off-handedly remarked that Charlotte King seemed a little more human. It wasn't anything, but little things can make the guilt rise in your chest. Charlotte now is staring up at him, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes blazing. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about." His eyes bore into hers. "Don't. Just don't do it."

A faint blush stains her pale cheeks, and she's about to lie, but thinks better of it. "Can I help it if you make me happy?"

His eyes, hard and bright, soften and he sighs. His hand just grazes her shoulder, but she feels it like he slapped her.

"Yes."

_In the terminal she sleeps on my shoulder,_

_Hair falling forward, mouth all askew._

_Fluorescent announcements beat their wings overhead:_

_"Passengers missing, we're looking for you."_

_And she dreams through the noise, her weight against me,_

_Face pressed into the corduroy grooves._

Stars over the valley are almost obscured by the light pollution, but she stands by her car and stares up at them anyway. Meaning in her life has been reduced to the next time she can feel his hands on her hair, and she sighs, shivering a little in the shifting wind.

He sighs again when he comes out of Oceanside and sees her standing in the parking lot. "Charlotte. Come on."

"I'm not trying to get you in trouble. You work late most nights. I knew she wouldn't be here."

"And if she had been?"

"I would have asked you for the McKelvie file."

"There is no McKelvie file."

She tosses him a look. "You're smart enough to figure that one out, I think." He grins and she grins back. Running a hand over his shaven head, he sighs gustily. "You don't make it easy to keep this a secret affair."

She smiles again and he shakes his head. "Let's go for a drive instead of going back to your house."

The Hollywood Hills are dark, but breezy. Sam guides the car with a practiced hand and Charlotte stares out the window until her stomach churns, but somehow, it's perfect; it's like heading into the sky with the way the cliffs drop steeply away, the starlit night reflected in all the little lights below.

She doesn't say anything, and he doesn't try to start conversation, and the other world that they create for themselves, far away from hospitals and wives and other obligations, it's like a blanket over them – nothing else needs to exist. He smiles into the wind and stops on the cliff overlooking the city.

When he looks over at Charlotte, her eyes are closed, her lips relaxed, arms curled around herself. His eyes melt a little more as she cuddles into him, a little sigh escaping her lips. He doesn't want to move, but it's getting onto midnight.

With regret, he pulls away and starts the descent down into reality.

She doesn't wake up.

_Maybe it means nothing, maybe it means nothing,_

_Maybe it means nothing, but I'm afraid to move._

She stirs her chai; he peers into his coffee cup, and they sit in the café and say nothing. To the average observer, they're friends, but to someone who looks closer, her leg is touching his. His hand occasionally drifts to hers, and when they do make eye contact, she captures his gaze and doesn't let it go.

There's no conversation. There doesn't need to be.

_And the words: they're everything and nothing._

_I want to search for her in the offhand remarks._

_Who are you, taking coffee, no sugar?_

_Who are you, echoing street signs?_

_Who are you, the stranger in the shell of a lover?_

_Dark curtains drawn by the passage of time?_

She stops talking to him. It starts to be about the sex, and he can't take it. No conversation at home; his teenager won't meet his eyes. No conversation here, in the evergreen-scented room. He catches her crying and it's then that he realizes.

"I can't be what you want, Charlotte."

"I never asked you to be!" Her voice raises, her Southern accent clearer through the fog. She paces the room and he inwardly cringes. She's just started to sleep at night. She doesn't shiver when he moves suddenly.

"What do you want?"

She can't articulate it. "You don't love her."

"I do love her. She's my wife."

"That means nothing," she spits, and he sighs. "What happened to you?"

Her face is twisted and her hair is messed up, and she clenches her fists because she doesn't want him to leave Naomi for only her.

"I just need you, Sam." Her voice is softer than a whisper and he clasps her to him, feeling the bones poking through her shirt; feeling her like a butterfly in his embrace. "Why are you so scared of me, then?"

Why, indeed?

_Oh, words, like rain, how sweet the sound._

_"Well anyway," she says, "I'll see you around..."_

"Did you leave?"

He's at her door in the pouring ocean rain, and his face is sort of resigned. "I guess." He makes to come in, but she blocks the door.

"You said you wouldn't leave her."

"What makes you think it was because of you?"

"Why else would you leave her?"

He moves under the canopy and she stands out beside him, watching the drops spinning like silver coins on the satiny driveway.

"This isn't working, Charlotte." She can smell his cologne and it catches in her throat, even as he puts his arms around her; even as she buries her nose in his shirt.

"It's always been weird."

"Yes."

"But you're here." The last statement almost sounds like a question, and he detaches; he moves away.

"Just to tell you."

She nods, once, twice, and he turns to get in the car, almost invisible in the darkening evening. She watches him drive away; hears the sea in her ears like a deafening roar.

Even Percocet doesn't work this time; there's no numbness for constant waves of hurt.

_Maybe it means nothing, maybe it means nothing,_

_Maybe it means nothing, but I'm afraid to move._


	4. Chapter 4

It's not loneliness. Even if it was, she wouldn't admit it.

When she closes her eyes, she finds herself confronted with images; the look of his brown eyes, or the way he stands, square on the balls of his feet. His stomach is finely muscled; his arms are like bands around her, especially when she can't stop shaking. It's strange that a whole accessible ocean of love was there, and now – there's nothing. And it's not even really clear why that is.

She's taken to walking at night; even though it's stupid – yes, even though it's dangerous. She puts on her iPod and she takes out her running shoes and she just walks; walks through the warm air and passes the lit-up buildings. She wanders through parks and she sits on the beach, running the cool sand through her fingers and watching the Cheshire-cat-smile moon make tracks on the water. Funnily enough, in this drier season; the Santa Anas blowing from the hills and creating that scorching quality in the air – the sea doesn't have any scent at all. There's no water in the air and the drought's almost killing her.

_Summer move forward and stitch me the fabric of fall  
Wrap life in the brilliance of death to humble us all  
How sweet is the day  
I'm craving a darkness  
As I sit tucked away with my back to the wall_

She sits at her desk and tries to do work double-time; she's thrown out the Percocet and she's shivering from a mixture of coffee, withdrawal, and increased sensitivity to the air conditioning. Her fingers keep hitting the wrong keys and in frustration, she bangs her fists harder than she expected onto her desk. A glass container of pens, pencils, and other desk implements wavers and falls, shattering on the linoleum floor. She drops her head and buries her face in her hands. Fuck.

Her on-duty nurse pokes her head around the door. "Dr. King? Are you okay?"

Charlotte raises her face and the nurse is a little surprised at how pale it is. "What?"

"I just . . . Dr. King?"

Charlotte closes her eyes and leans her head back against the chair. "I'm okay. I think. I'll be fine. Get back to work."

The nurse disappears and Charlotte stares at the wood grain on her desk. It's easier to be a bitch; she's fooled everyone, and now the personality she's given them has turned back to fire.

It all goes to shit. It never lasts. That's the way of it. It's always the way of it for her.__

And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth  
And the landscape of merry and desperate drought  
How much longer dear angels  
Let winterlight come  
And spread your white sheets over my empty house

He's been pretending he doesn't see her, at the hospital. She wonders how much Naomi actually knows, because the woman accompanies Sam on every visit, despite the fact that divorce proceedings are in order, or so she hears. Charlotte pretends not to see him, but the fact is, his cases still cross her desk and certain permissions need her signature, and he never really goes away. It's hard to pretend life goes on when the past keeps staring you in the face from a bunch of paperwork piled in your inbox.

She decides, one day, to come down for a completely weird case involving a dead man and some sperm collection. She isn't really surprised to come face to face with him; she is surprised when he won't meet her eyes and pretends, stupidly, that he can't remember your name.

"You know my name, Sam. Stop pretending you don't."

As his eyes cast down in embarrassment, she sees a curious look from Naomi. How easy it would be to blurt out the truth. But she knows, as he turns away from her gaze to meet his ex-wife's, that it's not winning. It won't make him come back. And she hates herself for needing this so badly – for needing his kiss, his touch, his gaze. She wishes she was stronger, because she used to be.

When Naomi goes to check on the dead man's wife, Sam turns his eyes back to Charlotte and she pulls him roughly around the corner, enjoying the fact that her nails might hurt him, even though he can't really be hurt. He's so strong and solid and gentle; he's got scars on his chest and on his hands. He knows what pain is, but he doesn't ever let on that he feels it. Even so. She likes that his gaze is confused instead of simply amused.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Charlotte. Naomi is here. What do you want from me?"

"Are you with her?"

"No, not that it's any of your business. We're here for work."

She lets go of his wrist and slumps against the wall. "I don't want to ask you why."

"Why what?"

"You know why what. I don't want to ask you why."

"But you want to know why." He sighs and shifts, refusing to look her in the eyes. "Charlotte, I can't tell you why."

"But you did it anyway. I'm supposed to just stand here and accept the fact that you left me, and you left her, and there's no particular reason?"

He looks at her now. His eyes lock onto hers and despite herself, her eyes well up. His eyes are so soft; so kind, so incredibly understanding, and she hates herself and she hates him and she hates the life that foreordained that love would always be something she struggled with.

"I just needed to be clear. To be . . . to listen to myself, I guess."

"But I loved you." And when she says it, it's true. Charlotte doesn't love anyone easily. She's never really remembered loving anyone, not even her parents.

"I'm so sorry." His voice is still sonorous, but she bows her head away from him. When he touches her cheek, she recoils. "Oh, Charlotte."

"Just go."

He leaves and she watches him walk away, his solid gait so strong and sure, and she envies someone like that. When they can function without water and she's parching in the desert, digging at the sand to try to find moisture.__

Summer move forward and leave your heat anchored in dust  
Forgotten him, cheated him, painted illusions of lust  
Now language escape, fugitive of forgiveness  
Leaving as trace only circles of rust

She's got to go to Oceanside today to consult with Addison Montgomery, the newest member of the team over at the touchy-feely place. There's been a baby switch, and although Charlotte is incredibly tired of all of this bullshit, she has the nurse find the files; she goes through them herself, and she falls asleep with her eyes feeling like dry balls of iron over the manila folders and almost misses her appointment.

Addison is one of those people that seem to have everything going for them. She's beautiful and cheerful and in control, and Charlotte hates her already. She tosses the files in front of her and turns on her heel. "I've got other things to attend to, so, figure it out."

"You're Charlotte King?"

"Yes. And I'm busy." She throws Addison a look and is surprised and annoyed to see the redhead's gaze is one of amusement. "Nice to meet you, Charlotte King."

"Whatever. When you people figure this out, have someone return the files. I don't want to spend any more time here than I have to. Unlike you, I actually have work to do." She realizes she's being a bitch; she realizes she doesn't even know this woman. But somehow she wants to wipe that smirk off Addison's face because life isn't perfect, and she doesn't believe Addison has any idea what it's like to not be perfect.

Instead of getting angry, though, Addison's eyes soften. "Okay. Have a good rest of the day."

Charlotte bangs out the door, her jaw set. She feels awful because she can't be nice, but she's never really known how. Why start now?__

And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth  
And the landscape of merry and desperate drought  
How much longer dear angels  
Come break me with ice  
Let the water of calm trickle over my doubts

She's back again and she watches the mothers in the next room cradle babies and cry and cling to their children like someone clings to a life raft. She doesn't get it – she's never liked children – but she feels the mood. She empathizes. She's lost people in her life before. She wipes at her cheeks, surprised to find them wet, and watches her hand like a starfish gripping the soft back of the chair extra hard.

When she hears someone come in the room, she turns her back to the door, but Addison's voice rings out, anyway. "It's okay, you know. To cry. It's sad."

"You have no idea what you're talking about. I'm fine." Charlotte wipes at her eyes and tries to resume her set expression. Addison cocks her head to the side a little bit and tries to catch Charlotte's eyes. "Why are you so embarrassed for me to see you cry?"

"I'm not crying!" Charlotte suddenly whirls around. "I'm not into this touchy-feely stuff, okay. I'm in charge of two hundred physicians" – oh, why did she say this? What does it prove? – "and I don't have time for your way of healing. It's too bad. I feel sorry for them." She waves a hand in the direction of the drama and then sighs. "I don't know."

"It's okay not to know. It's okay to be sad."

"Are you some kind of shrink?" Charlotte peers up at Addison's sapphire eyes and the taller redhead grins. "Do you need a shrink?"

"Of course not," Charlotte snaps. "I just wondered is all."

"Whatever it is, I hope you get through it." Addison says it simply; too simply to deny. Charlotte finds herself almost smiling.

"Thank you."__

Come let me drown  
Angels no fire no salt on the plow  
Carry me down  
Bury me down  


Insomnia is like an old, unwanted friend. It takes about four nights of staring out the window, wishing she could sleep, before she bows her head. She doesn't want this. She doesn't want him. And yet, the stars in the sky are too bright for her eyes, and it's not helping her run the hospital, so she gives up. She goes to Oceanside.

He's still got soft hands. It always surprised her that he could be so strong and yet his skin so soft. He moves her head; he stares into her green eyes and she almost wavers her gaze – almost, because she can't bear to be the one to break first – and then he sighs. "Insomnia is often a psychological problem."

"Thank you, Dr. Sam. I am a physician myself, you know. I can't deal with this." Her voice is suddenly lower, and he almost reaches out to run his hand over her hair. "Have you thought about sleeping pills? There are several good ones."

"I can't believe that you of all people would suggest that."

If you could see it, he would be blushing. As it is, he sends her to Pete. Fine.

Amidst the Gregorian chant and scent of spices around her, she stares at the ceiling and contemplates the spots on the tiles. Thought does indeed occur, but are they just hoping she'll leave? She almost hopes, having caught Violet Turner's curious gaze in the hallway, that she won't have to stay here long. There's got to be some magical cure. There's always a magic potion.

It takes them three days to find it in some grey paste and some psychiatric evaluation. She lies in the bed that babies are born in and tries to avoid Pete's eyes. "This had better work, Wilder."

"If you would simply relax, it would. You're so uptight. Your stomach must be a mess."

"Like you care."

He flips the light and she tries to sleep. For once – be it the darkness, the softness of the bed, or the grey stuff on her forehead – she does. A light, troubled sleep.

She suddenly awakens in the dark; there's a light in the distance and she doesn't know where she is. Is she drowning? Has she finally lost the battle? She stares wildly around the room and suddenly starts to cry, a low, tortured sobbing keening that isn't stifled because she thinks she's alone. So utterly alone and it's almost a regression. She feels five years old and all the imagining in the world isn't going to save her from her father's backhand.

And, indeed, she sees the shadow at the door and she cowers; grey paste flakes from her forehead and she tastes cinnamon in the flake that falls into her open mouth. As she feels her legs go numb, he grabs her and she even pees a little, trying to get away from the expected pain.

"Charlotte, whoa. Shhh. Shhh." His voice is so calm; she relaxes, barely. "What's going on? What's happening?"

"Shh. You're at Oceanside, remember? What's wrong?" He strokes her hair (the non-grey-pasted part) and she comes back to herself. And it's all so stupid; they've all seen who she really is, she doesn't care anymore. She leans against his chest and cries into his shirt, and he rubs her back and presses his lips on her forehead. "Oh, my. Shhh."

"I don't know how to be myself when you're not with me. I don't know how to sleep anymore. And you never explained it to me. You never told me if I was too much. And I can't be alone anymore. It's your fault."

He takes the accusations and he sits on the edge of the bed, letting her lean against his chest. "You're blaming me for not being able to sleep?"

"I miss you." And there it is. He traces the tear down her cheek. "Oh, Charlotte."

"Maybe it was her, and that's fine, but I at least was owed an explanation. I at least was owed something to close it off. I can't even look at you and I remember your arms around me."

He cuddles her closer and sighs into her hair. "I wish I could explain it to you."

"You could start by at least giving a reason."

"I didn't know who I was anymore."

"I don't know who I am, either. And all your stupid friends know it."

"Why do you assume everyone is judging you?"

"Because everyone fucking is."

They sit in silence for a moment. "I think that it never would have worked, anyway."

"No. But I care about you, Sam."

"And somehow, though you won't let me, and you pull away, and you're so prickly and scared, I care about you."

He lays her down onto the bed; he kisses her cheek and she pulls him down with her. "Stay, please?"

He relents. "Fine. Until you fall asleep again. You need to sleep."

"I want to sleep."

He traces letters on her back and she sighs shakily, listening to his slow heartbeat and even breath sounds. "You're always so . . . together."

"No."

"Whatever." She burrows back into him and he holds her to his chest.

"It wasn't you, okay?"

"Positive?"

"It was never, ever you. You make me smile." She hears the smile in his voice and closes her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

_  
And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth  
And the landscape of merry and desperate drought  
Once I knew myself  
And with knowing came love  
I would know love again if I had faith enough_

She wakes up the next morning and he's gone. She tries to sneak out before anyone can see her, but Addison catches her waiting for the elevator before she can escape.

"You look less tired."

"Yeah."

Addison smiles at her. "Have a good day, then."

She nods and as the elevator whisks down, she vows to make good on Addison's wish.

_  
Too far is next spring and her jubilant shout  
So angels, inside  
Is the only way out._

That wishing creek; the place of dreams. Lake Pontchartrain; the place of relaxation. Pacific Ocean? The place of passion. What's a drought?

Charlotte tips her head up to the sky and feels the scorching fiery air lessen in the lee of gentle rain.

The drought is over.


End file.
